Neon Vernacular
by lyricalmadness
Summary: "I know," he says melting into the rhythm of the song, his touch, "This city – we belong here."  Closing his eyes, he inhales the familiar salty warmth of the boy and smiles.


**A/N:** I had initially planned to write a happy, somewhat sappy story about the boys in New York but the didn't happen (instead of working on my grad school portfolio, of course). Apparently, my go to voice of choice in this fandom is slightly melancholy, slightly angsty and that is what I wrote. It does have a happy ending, I promise. I may turn this into a series of one shots about them coming to age and growing together in New York but I am not sure and would love your input. Also, I have never lived nor spent a lot of time in big cities such as New York so please excuse the ambiguous details. I kind of researched but not really. Thank you for taking your time to read and I really hope you enjoy it half as much as I enjoyed writing it.

**Disclaimer:** I promise that I am not making any money off of this. If I were then I wouldn't have thousands of dollars of student loans . . . wait. I also own nothing but the appreciation for the songs "Wish You Were Here," by Pink Floyd, "Happiness," by Elliot Smith, and "Hallelujah," by Jeff Buckley (originally composed by Leonard Cohen) which are mentioned in the text.

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><p>It hums with a certain electricity throbbing up through the soles of feet wandering with or without direction before settling pulsating, hot in the pits of stomachs and the recesses of the mind as it echoes throughout the atmosphere thick with humidity and a certain heat that sizzles effervescently even within the night air. The city breathes around him – a stop-action kind of inhalation and exhalation of air as solid and tangible as the buzzing neon lights or the unforgiving concrete beneath his feet. The heartbeat of the city becomes his heartbeat as he loses himself in the sanctity of the noise and the solidarity of being defined by a place, this city, even as his messenger bag hangs heavy on his shoulder and his eyes sting with the need for sleep. This all encompassing feeling of belonging, of being one simple, faceless person walking amongst others in the thick August air propels him forward, body tingling, up several flights of stairs until he is standing before the door of his apartment, their apartment that's maybe a little too small, a little too dirty, and much to expensive but is entirely theirs. The door creaks open and he silently slips through the chipped doorway before toeing off his shoes and slinging the cumbersome bag onto the laminate counter that separates the kitchen from the living room. Long shadows of the night curl around corners and elongates themselves across the slate carpet only to be disrupted by the dim glow of the lone lamp flicking and beaming over the figure standing unnaturally still by the large (almost absurdly so considering the size of the room) window that faced towards the busy street.<p>

"Hey," he says as he pads softly across the uncluttered space stopping only when he is close enough to feel the tension shifting, rolling off of the shorter boy that has yet to acknowledge his presence. The reflection in the window stares back at him with tense lines, furrowed brows, corners of the mouth pulled sharply down as teeth scrap harshly over the tender bottom lip. A hand, still burnt gold by the summer, reaches out and traces the path of a lone figure walking up the cracked pathway disappearing into the dark that will never be quite as black as the endless ones back home. A shuddering sigh is released into the air almost unnoticeably; the inhalation that follows, though, is sharp, loud in the static silence that surrounds them.

"Do you ever get tired of hoping that people will change? Of knowing that there will always be more people who don't understand, who will never try to understand, than those that do or at least try to?" He asks, eyes pinching shut, fingers tracing lazily, drifting over the glass that still retains the echoing warmth of the sun's last rays. "I am tired, Kurt, so tired of feeling like an outsider."

Stretching forward, he slots their bodies together, drawing the shorter boy back tight against his chest as his arms find purchase just above sharp hip bones and his head finds home in the junction of the shoulder and neck. Apologies are left unsaid (there are only so many times that one can apologize for other's actions); instead, lips dance over exposed skin as the shorter boy twists in his embrace, fingers fisting soft, worn material, eyes bright with moisture.

"Let's go somewhere," he whispers urgently, thumbs sweeping over high cheekbones whisking away the remnants of saline that had managed to escape. "I want to show you something."

The dark-haired boy nods his consent, blinking slowly, heavily as he leans into the hand tracing over the plains of his face. Quietly they disentangle from each other's grasp, pull shoes on, and flee into the night where the adagio of the city beats slow and steady around them.

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><p>Red brick buildings look down upon them as they slowly pass arms brushing slightly with every step or so. Sleepy apartments morph into little cafés tucked into corners and the steady glow of phosphorous lights voluntarily mix with the brazen blaze of neon as they flash their welcomes into the starless sky. It is not until their apartment building is fading into the background that he spares a lingering glance at the boy whom fell into perfect step with him not questioning his need to escape into the night. Another block or two passes before he is able to free one of the hands that are clenched tight into the front pockets of worn jeans and tangle their fingers together in a loose grip.<p>

"It's ok." He murmurs as a group over takes them laughing a little too loudly, brushing a little too closely, "I've got you."

Fingers squeeze his hesitantly and shoulders, which were held hunched with tension, uncertainty, relax slightly. The cement throbs below their feet with the heavy bass that escapes soundlessly from bars and clubs; the air is in a constant state of flux as people spill out of or push through heavy black doors drunk off of the city and sticky with the need to find themselves in the haze of the heat and the electricity of the lights. Everyone who loses themselves in the hard vibrations of the asphalt and the starless sky is an outsider, he realizes, but those who find themselves in the heartbeat of the city, the love of the city, are the ones that breathe life into this metropolis. These nameless people that push and shove their way through the sidewalks trying to find their way to or from home are no more outsiders than he is, than the boy walking quietly besides him, who flinches when gazes linger too long on their clasped hands and has been made to be afraid in his own skin, is.

"Where are we going?" The shorter boy asks as they slip past a stumbling couple trying to hail a cab from the depths of the busy street.

"Nowhere," he shrugs as he pulls him closer and pushes him forward once more, "everywhere."

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><p>They continue walking silently watching the city heave and change shape around them pausing only to duck into the cool confines of a late night coffee shop that is sandwiched between a fast food restaurant and a music shop. Iced coffees are ordered to go; however, they stay and listen to a few rambling pieces of bad poetry uttered with too many dramatic pauses over a fuzzy sound system. The conviction is really what matters, though. The white noise is louder when they push back into the thick air. Not any less comforting, really, just more expansive as it rises around them in controlled leisure.<p>

"I know that you are tired of being an outsider, Blaine," he says almost as an afterthought as he pulls them to a stop in front of a darkened window display and wraps himself carefully around the boy that is still, rightfully so, nervous about touching, being touched in public, "but this city strives on outsiders, on altered perceptions."

He feels rather than hears the shaky exhalation of air and the accompanying nod as they stand contemplating the obtuse and acute angles of the mannequins strewn haphazardly around the window display.

"This display is totally inappropriate for the clothes that they sell," he states sometime later with a jerky nod at the glass, "I could design something that will not only utilize the space but emphasize the clothing so much better."

"Of course you can," the shorter boy consents with an affectionate chuckle as they head up the sidewalk once more, arms stilling around waists, icy drinks still clutched carelessly in free hands.

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><p>It's faint, almost indiscernible, when they first hear it floating above the squealing tires and roaring engines in a sweet juxtaposition. Natural crescendos and decrescendos become more easily recognizable adding another layer to the night that should be an overwhelming cacophony of sound but, somehow, blends seamlessly, easily. It isn't until they round the corner that they are able to fully understand the smooth slide of fingers over strings that accompanies the stranger singing his lament that falls upon deaf ears but is absorbed by the cement, the city. The shorter boy jerks them to a stop, fingers digging into his hip bones, as he stares, transfixed, at the hallowed cheeked, haunted eyed man standing proud behind the faded black guitar case propped open at his feet. A voice, rough and bluesy, flitters in between the complex chords that his fingers produce effortlessly weaving its own story in the pauses. They stand entranced, still for a moment, before he pulls the dark-haired boy into his arms and sways to the beat on this random, innocuous corner ignoring the bustling street and the people veering around them shooting them slightly amused, questioning looks. The man, with his beat up guitar and face that speaks of his own demons, meets his eyes and smiles so genuinely that it makes him ache. This city is about connecting with people, he realizes, now more than anything.<p>

"You know," the shorter boy mumbles into his shoulder, "this is the first time we have danced together in public since jr. prom."

He pulls the boy tighter against him, lips grazing his temple, as he remembers dancing in the wreckage of the practical joke that almost broke him. "We are no longer in Ohio, Blaine."

"I know," he says melting into the rhythm of the song, his touch, "This city – we belong here."

Closing his eyes, he inhales the familiar salty warmth of the boy and smiles.

"We are two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year," sings the man, throaty and perfect, in the background.

Contentment seeps in with a certain tangible stickiness that cannot be denied. The guitar fades, shifting as a new rhythm is plucked into the air. This time, the bitter sweet softness of Elliot Smith's _Happiness_ is shaped into the perfect harmony for the darkness.

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><p>Sometime later, they pull apart and softly set their pocket change into the starkly empty case with a murmured thank you that softens the man's weary features. With the eerie chords of <em>Hallelujah<em> twisting in the air, they turn and set a slow pace home. Minds buzzing in time with their feet, hearts pulsating with the secret rhythms of the city as lights crash around them in a steady comfort. Their barely eighteen-year-old hearts swell, souls expanding in the limitless sky as the city smiles, breathes, and shifts around them in the soft thud of their feet hitting pavement. For now, they will not think about the other side of the city that lurks in darkened alleyways picking its victims without consideration or bias – the one that is molded by the dark side of humanity, the human condition. Instead, they climb the endless flights of stairs and let themselves into their apartment that may be a little too small, a little too dirty, much too expensive but is entirely theirs. It is in those long shadows that creep around corners and drape themselves over plains and ridges that they solidify themselves in the weighty slide of bodies, of skin as the city continues to vibrate; muted within the walls of their home but never hesitating, never stopping.


End file.
